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by poorlittlerichgirl91
Summary: In this story, Rose doesn't go to find Jack at the bow after their talk in the gymnasium, nor does the Titanic strike the iceberg. How long can she continue fighting her feelings?
1. Chapter 1

_Sunday, April 14 1912_, _10:00pm_  
_  
"You're not to see that boy again, Rose. I forbid it."_

Rose perched on the velvet-cushioned stool as Trudy buttoned up the silk nightgown for her. She sighed heavily, her eyes glued to the floor solemnly. She had skipped dinner and barely interacted with anybody all evening, using the excuse that the sea air was causing her to feel unwell. Of course, it seemed no coincidence to her mother and Cal that this mysterious and sudden illness had taken hold immediately after Rose had been forbidden from seeing a certain third-class passenger again. They'd shrugged her behaviour off with stern faces and watchful eyes, knowing she'd make a complete recovery once they were back on dry land and far away from Mr. Dawson.

His face – brokenhearted and dejected – re-appeared in her head and she winced, the guilt she felt almost crushing her ribs. Regret filled her mind as the soft caress of his hand still burned into her flesh; he had touched her so tenderly, the love and care apparent in his trembling fingertips. The way his eyes – so full of hope and promise – had dropped as he listened to her retort, as if she'd delivered a devastating and fatal blow to his heart. In a way, she had: she knew her words had crushed him; they had almost killed her to speak.

_"I'm going back. Leave me alone."_

She wanted to physically recoil as she heard her words echo in her mind. How could she have been so cold and cruel after he'd just spilled his heart out to her?

"Miss Rose, I can't help but notice you've been particularly melancholy today," Trudy frowned slightly as she gently ran the gilded hairbrush through Rose's fiery curls. "And after you've seemed so upbeat these past few days, too..."

Rose didn't react immediately, instead studying each of the ornate objects on her vanity table, tiny remnants of smashed glass still visible in the drawer from when she'd lost her temper the first night of the voyage. The night she'd decided to end her life. The night she'd met him.

She saw him in her mind out on the promenade deck: the sea breeze blowing his sandy blond mop of hair, golden-tanned skin just visible in his open-collared shirt, piercing eyes of azure squinting in the sun. He was the sunshine himself, she was sure; radiant and blinding, bringing life and brightness and warmth with him everywhere he went.

"–It's like the light in your eyes has dimmed, Miss."

_"Sooner or later that fire that I love about you, Rose. That fire's going to burn out."_

_Jack._

She swallowed a painful lump that had gathered at the back of her throat; the mere thought of him enough to reduce her to intense and crippling emotions she'd previously never struggled to control in the presence of others.

"Trudy?" her voice choked out.

"Yes, Miss Rose?"

"Have you ever been in love?" she spoke slowly, as though challenging herself to say such words aloud.

Her eyes curiously gazed into the vanity mirror at Trudy's reflection, wondering what her maid's reaction would be. They didn't speak like this often – if ever – and when no immediate response was given, she worried she may have risked her confidence in the hands of the wrong ally. After a pause, Rose saw the answer before she heard it––as soon as she saw a wide smile break out across Trudy's often neutral and impassive face.

"I am in love, Miss," she looked back at Rose, wondering where the sudden interest had come from. "My fiancé Edgar is to meet me in New York when the ship docks," she smiled as she set down the hairbrush on the glass vanity top carefully, untucking her locket from underneath her pinafore and opening it carefully to show Rose the tiny pinhole photograph inside.

Rose peered in, a sad smile adorning her face.

"How do you know?"

"I beg your pardon, Miss?"

"How do you know you're in love with Edgar?" Rose replied, unflinchingly.

"Well, I..." Trudy started, thinking carefully about her answer. She picked up the brush again, resuming the gentle combing of Rose's wild auburn curls. "It's hard to put into words, Miss. One just knows..."

Rose sighed, a little exasperated. "Please do try, Trudy. What does it feel like?"

"Well-" there was that dazzling smile again. The same smile Rose had felt burning across her own face the previous night whilst dancing in Jack's arms at the steerage party. "At first it's frightening."

"Frightening?"

"Frightening and overwhelming and exciting all at once," Trudy sighed, the exhilaration evident in her voice. "When I first met Edgar I felt as though I'd gone quite mad," she giggled.

Rose felt a pang in her chest.

"Then it feels glorious. As though the sun rises and the birds sing every morning just for you!" Trudy giggles wildly, then composes herself. "But I suppose mostly, it's the way I feel in his presence, Miss."

"And how do you feel in Edgar's presence, Trudy?" Rose's voice was barely above a murmur now.

Trudy tried to find the words. "I feel like anything's possible. Like I'm the only person in the room and most important person in the world – me! – Gertrude Bishop from Roxborough..." she giggled again with an air of disbelief. "And when he kisses me–"

Rose said nothing, almost afraid to know the answer.

"–it's like I've returned. Like I'm back where I belong."

Rose felt the sadness again, trying not to think about Jack – about the empty space his presence filled inside her heart – and she mustered a smile at her maid, feeling genuinely pleased that at least one of them was able to experience the blissfulness of reciprocated affection.

"Surely you must have felt such folly when Mr. Hockley kisses you, Miss?" Trudy asked, with careful hesitation, not wanting to overstep any boundaries.

Rose grimaced. Cal's kisses were chaste and restrained: hardly the unbridled passion she'd read about in romantic novels; she doubted whether her fiancé was even _capable_ of passion. Unlike Jack, who seemed to exude passion and intensity in everything he did––

She stopped herself, biting her lip.

She had spent the entirety of last night tossing and turning, mind full of Jack and imagination running wild with frenzied thoughts of his hands and eyes and lips. As they lingered outside the first-class entrance after he'd escorted her back there, she'd noticed the faintest brush of his hand against the railing and had been dazed by how entirely too close his face was to hers all of a sudden– her five senses permeated with Jack: his voice, his aroma, his touch; his eyes and mouth hypnotising and inviting, beckoning her closer – almost teasing her into closing the few inches between them.

_"Look! A shooting star! Aren't we supposed to wish on it?"_

_"Why? What would you wish for?"_

_You, Jack. Every time. _She'd wanted to scream it at him, to fall into his arms and admit that she couldn't quite imagine her life to resume in its arranged trajectory now that she'd met him: his existence; his beautiful existence had awakened her from a dreamless slumber and changed everything. It was becoming alarmingly clear to Rose that now she had met him; now she had basked in his warmth and radiance and charm and beauty, that nothing would ever be the same. In the space of twenty-four hours, Jack Dawson had walked into her life – clumsily and uncouth – and become the centre of her universe.

At that moment, a single tear escaped from Rose's eyelid. Trudy watched as the redhead rushed to conceal her face from view, turning and bringing a delicate hand to wipe her eye discreetly.

"It's not Mr. Hockley, is it Miss?" Trudy's voice was cautious - she knew she had to tread carefully - but never lost the undertone of kindness that Rose found so approachable and trustworthy.

When Rose did not respond, except in the form of deep, controlled breaths that one could only comprehend as her desperately attempting self-composure, Trudy stopped pressing her for answers. "Miss, forgive me for speaking out of line. I did not mean to–"

"Don't apologise, Trudy. You didn't upset me." Rose's voice struggled against the lump forming in her throat.

As Trudy looked at Rose's reflection in the mirror, she recognised the look of despondency and grief, and felt a deep sadness that someone so young, so full of life and promise could be weighed down by such misery. Then, all of a sudden, the realisation dawned on her: the steerage boy. Of _course_. Trudy moved to kneel in front of Rose and placed both hands on her shoulders, her eyes full of an urgency that Rose was unfamiliar with.

"Go to him, Miss."


	2. Chapter 2

Rose didn't know exactly where she was going as she passed the wood panels decorating the second-class stairwell; she had thought it would be easy enough to locate the third-class general room since she'd been there just one night prior, but the further she wandered the more she discovered the ship really was like a floating palace: a maze of quarters and corridors that, without a map, was proving difficult to navigate. She passed the elevator shaft on E-Deck and opened the door leading to Scotland Road, the passage – she remembered from Mr. Andrew's tour earlier that day – that would take her directly to the other end of the ship. She slipped through the door discreetly, trying not to draw attention to herself at the late hour, though her pace soon quickened when she registered the urgency pumping through her veins. She felt almost delirious with anticipation.

_"When I first met Edgar I felt as though I'd gone quite mad,"_

Rose heard Trudy's voice echo in her head. _Madness_: that, too, had been her exact sentiment for the past few days since meeting Jack. Euphoric highs and almost incoherent happiness after befriending the breathtaking artist and finding herself inspired by almost everything about him. As her thoughts returned to him, her breath hitched as she walked faster: her footsteps matching the _thump, thump, thump_ of her racing heart pounding in her ears, almost muffling the quiet hum of the ship's engines below.

Scotland Road seemed to go on for miles. Her shoes pattered on the wooden floor, echoing along the vacant passageway; every dizzying step forwards filling her with deeper anxiety as the reality set in: what would she say to him? She hadn't rehearsed a speech or even thought about what she was going to do, she had just felt the inexplicable desire – _need_– to see him. She felt safe in his presence, peaceful and content; not just physically but emotionally, too. The world was suddenly wonderful because Jack Dawson existed within it, and nothing and no one could do harm because he was here, and somehow, she knew he always would be.

* * *

The third-class dining saloon was mostly deserted, except for a few stewards still clearing away food and crockery from earlier. She heard the faint playing of piano keys in the distance and walked towards a room she soon recognised as the one she'd danced in with Jack the night before. She ignored the curious looks being directed her way from both stewards and passengers, fiddling anxiously with the chiffon material of her dress.

She stood in the middle of the third-class general room, the sounds of ragtime and drunken chatter abruptly coming to a halt as all eyes turned towards her. She noticed how they regarded her; like a siren from some poetic dream. Last night she had been escorted here by Jack but now she was completely alone, and their muffled whispers and prying eyes immediately made her uncomfortable.

She scanned the room helplessly, feeling lost amongst the sea of faces, more desperate than ever to find him.

"Ah, come to break his heart again have ya?" A thick Irish voice snickered through the fog of cigarette smoke.

Her heart began to race again as she walked closer and recognised the man as one of Jack's friends from the night before. She shook her head sadly, pained at the thought of Jack being anything but his usual happy-go-lucky sunshine self.

"Please." She sighed, a yearning in her voice as well as her eyes. "Where can I find him?"

The Irishman studied her, exhaling smoke as his brown eyes travelled the length of her body. As she looked around and noticed more men leering, she brought an arm to hug herself instinctively, suddenly feeling self-conscious in the thin dress she'd opted to wear.

Sensing her trepidation, he relented. "Try his bunk. G-60."

* * *

Rose felt the nervous fluttering in the pit of her stomach as she scurried down the steerage corridors, reciting his cabin number aloud as she approached the line of rooms leading to his. G-10, G-20, G-30, every row of tens she passed she felt the dizzying heat in her belly intensify. When she finally reached G-60; she thought she might actually faint, and so brought her hand to rest on the riveted gangway wall to steady her knees from buckling.

She looked around, comparing the stark difference in interior to her own in first-class. She exhaled, a rush of dread surging through her as, soberingly, the realisation sunk in of just how inappropriate her presence here was. Really, what was she thinking? What was she even going to say to him? Coming to his cabin in the middle of the night, disturbing him and other passengers who were most probably sleeping. Her thoughts immediately wandered back to Jack, and fleetingly she wondered what he looked like as he slept. Did his hair still fall in his eyes? Did he still wear that charming hint of a grin she'd come to adore? She almost had to shake her head to snap herself out of this latest reverie— her obsession with him intruded and invaded her every thought. Trudy was right; it _was_ maddening, but was it impeding on her ability to _act_ rationally as well as to think?

She sighed again, unsure of what to do. She glanced at the cabin door, realising it was the only barrier between her and Jack, and she felt her skin literally buzzing with delicious anticipation at the thought of seeing his impossibly handsome face, his golden-tan skin, his hands...

Without daring to listen to her racing thoughts anymore, she knocked suddenly.

She looked around nervously as she heard movement from behind the door, bracing herself as she heard unlatching. She stared at her satin shoes as it creaked opened, the whole thing taking place in slow motion.

_Jack. Jack. Jack._

There he stood; hair tousled and eyes hazy from sleep, his tan skin contrasting against the white of his undershirt. Her heart seemed to simultaneously slow down and speed up at the same time as she awed at his surprised state.

"Rose—?"

As she heard him speak her name, she felt the euphoric relief that his presence brought wash over her. Without realising it, she elevated towards him, feeling drawn to him by the force of a thousand magnets.

He looked into her eyes with a mixture of loving concern and perplexed confusion that only grew as she stepped closer towards him, so close he could feel her soft breath warm against his face.

She looked into his eyes before swallowing hard in anticipation and lowering her gaze to his lips. He opened his mouth as though to voice his confusion, but she stopped him, placing her index finger to his soft lips. His eyes searched hers, and she answered his silent question by slowly closing the rest of the space between them, tenderly pressing her own lips against his. There was no going back now.

He did not object, nor did he respond immediately; too caught off-guard to do anything except stand there, heart racing, dumbstruck.

The kiss was timid and tentative, but even then, it was enough for Rose to register the feeling of absolute bliss; relief mixed with excitement mixed with the irrefutable vindication that this was it: he was the missing piece, he was everything she hadn't realised she'd been looking and longing for.

"Alright, now I know I'm dreamin'" He muttered against her lips as she pulled away.

Her eyes softened at his reaction and she hesitantly reached up to rest her hands on his chest, almost blown away by his beauty this close. She had never thought of a man as 'beautiful' before - it was a word so often attributed to women - but she had also never met a man like Jack before, either. He was so remarkably stunning; his features, although chiseled and defined, were not rigid and stern, but soft, gentle. He also lacked the innate arrogance of men; something it seemed they possessed for merely belonging to the male sex. Where other men were arrogant and cold, he was charming and warm. He was an anomaly; beautiful and miraculous and mysterious and wonderful.

"Jack," she whispered, the urgency and desperation apparent. "I— I changed my mind. . ."

"Rose," he breathed, more groan than word. "If this is just a whim–" The pain and desperation was evident in his eyes, as his voice pleaded her to do what he lacked the strength to. "If you have every intention of going back and marrying that sonofabitch, please just go—" They both knew he was not strong enough to resist her, and as much as she was willing to take, he would give; even at the cost of his own heart, happiness, and sanity.

She could see the hurt reflecting in his eyes and realised just how strong his feelings for her were. She lifted a dainty hand to frame his soft cheek, similar to the way he had done earlier in the gymnasium. He was being so vulnerable and open, so unlike any other man she had ever known. She wanted him to feel as safe and reassured as he made her feel, so she spoke the only words that mattered at that moment;

"Trust me."

Those two words, whispered inches from his lips as her wide ocean eyes gazed into his own, were somehow all the confirmation he needed; the words that solidified their powerful bond. All the emotional barriers he'd built up during the last few hours - and she over the last seventeen years - fell, rendering them completely vulnerable to each other; to emotion, to the possibility and the promise of love.

"What are you saying?" He dared not let his mind run away with the hopeful possibility that she was really here, standing before him, offering herself to him fully. It was too good to be true — and yet, they both knew it was true. The smug, lop-sided grin of pure happiness crept its way onto his face before she even had time to answer, and he gently wrapped his arms around her waist, surprising them both at how natural it felt to be in such an intimate embrace.

"I want this. I want you, Jack. . . I—"

His soul-reading azure eyes pierced into her as she spoke, patient and encouraging, allowing her the time and space to finish. There was still that bewildered twinkle in his eye as the reality of the situation started to sink in, and he found himself tightening his hold around her waist, if only to make sure it was all real and actually happening.

"I–I'm in love with you."

She stilled, wondering if she'd said too much as she looked up at him, silently pleading him to reciprocate her feelings. . . As if she didn't already know.

This time it was her turn to be blown away. The force with which he kissed her was overwhelming; she melted against him as he dotted kisses all over her face, teasing her lips with a few short pecks before kissing her deeply. She moaned breathlessly as she felt his tongue trace along her bottom lip, stirring in her sensations that she'd never felt before. She felt a stab of pleasure in the pit of her abdomen as his tongue explored the depths of her mouth, massaging against her own; his kisses tasting like nicotine and honey. Suddenly every taste, touch, and smell were amplified – the feel of his hands on her, making her skin buzz with desire; the way he, in turn, reacted to her touch. It was all so new and exhilarating and yet, it was all so intimate and familiar. For the first time in her life, Rose felt without reservation that she was where she truly belonged.

She was home.


End file.
